I’m writing this on a LATAM Airways flight from Santiago to Calama, the gateway to the Atacama Desert in northern Chile

As I boarded, the gate agent smiled and asked, “Last time you came to the Atacama Desert, how did you get here?”

My answer? “I walked.”

Cue the look, that half-smile, half-eye-roll expression that says, “Yeah, right.”

So I explained

A few years ago, I’d taken a holiday in Bolivia that ended with some horse riding in the Atacama

What I didn’t know then was that Bolivia and Chile are still, technically, at war (they have agreed to disagree)

Which means, no official border crossing

When we reached the “border,” our driver and guide simply dropped us about 50 metres away

 We had to walk the rest of the way, dragging our suitcases across the dirt to the Chilean border post

There, we disinfected our shoes, and our bags were hand-searched by guards who probably didn’t see many travellers that day

By this point, I could feel a wave of food poisoning approaching, entirely self-inflicted after a Bolivian breakfast of dodgy eggs

When we finally reached the hotel, I made sure to stay close to the bathroom. (I’ll spare you the details.)

Conclusion:
So yes, the last time I came to the Atacama Desert, I did walk there. Just not in the way people imagine

Sometimes, travel isn’t just about the destination, it’s about the ridiculous, unpredictable, and slightly absurd stories you collect along the way